Sanctity
by mnemosyne23
Summary: When something is right, you know it's right. When time is short, you act in a moment. Ron and Hermione know these things. Tonight, they act on them. RHr. Rated for subject matter in later chapters. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1 On Marriage

**TITLE:** Sanctity  
_Chapter 1: On Marriage_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne 

**Disclaimer:** All _Harry Potter_-related people, places and events are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros. Studios. I make no claim on them. (Though if Ron, Bill or the twins ever find themselves searching for companionship in New England, they're free to look me up. I'm in the book. ;))  
**SUMMARY:** When something is right, you know it's right. When time is short, you act in a moment. Ron and Hermione know these things. Tonight, they act on them.  
**RATING:** PG-13, for some adult subject matter and blood-shedding. Please remember these are imaginary characters, and the things they do aren't things we should do. What do I mean? Read, and you'll find out.  
**PAIRING:** Ron/Hermione (but of course!)  
**SPOILERS:** For "Order of the Phoenix"  
**NOTES:**  
I wanted to a do a Ron/Hermione marriage fic that wasn't like any other marriage story I've read. I wanted to take them out of their familiar circle, and give their vows a darker tone. I think I was inspired by the gritty cinematography of the "PoA" film, which looked like antique silver: tarnished, but still beautiful. As for the "excerpt" at the beginning of the story… Well, it's got a sillier edge to it than the rest of the story, but please don't hold that against me. giggle I couldn't resist. ;) 

I hope you'll enjoy this story, and if you do, I hope you'll take a moment to review! Thank you!

* * *

_**Excerpt from the Introduction to On the Laws and Leniences of Marriage For Magical Races, copyright Sir Ichabod Sisslestock, 1857 A.D.**_

It has been noted by many venerable wizards and witches over the ages that the laws governing marriage in our society are outdated, inconsistent, and appear in many cases to have been written by mages who were too far off their rocker with drink to know exactly what the term _marriage_ entailed. They especially question the fact that so many of the more barbaric practices of our early history have been allowed to remain on the rulebooks as equally viable options to the more modern, less bloody ceremonies of today. Rather than striking such primitive practices from the law books, things like blood-bonding and Moon Marriage have been allowed to linger, not because anyone actually uses them, but because no one has ever bothered to say _Don't do these things._

Of course, few wizards would ever actually follow these outdated practices, but there are far more troubling issues that are still relevant in today's world. Dissenters complain that 14 years is far too young for a legal marriageable age. They object to the fact that no parental consent need be given. They scream like banshees when they are reminded that no witnesses need be present at the ceremony. And they point with unerring accuracy to the fact that in many places, the laws governing magical marriage seem to have been copied straight out of a Quidditch rulebook, with the term "quidditch" scribbled out and replaced with "marriage" in all the appropriate places. 

Proponents of the laws as they now stand rejoinder that 14 is not too young, and is in fact the perfect age for a legal marriage, being as it is double the lucky number Seven. As to parental consent and the presence of witnesses, they admit that such things would be nice, but due to the ease of forging signatures, the brewing of potions (_see "Polyjuice"_), and other forms of trickery, _DEMANDING_ these things causes more trouble than it prevents. "Besides," Lord Alberforce Widdershin supplied in a committee meeting on the subject in 1850, "common sense has governed the way wizards and witches have been wedding each other for centuries. We're all big boys and girls, after all, and know the proper way of doing things. We hardly need to be told." When asked to clarify how _big boys and girls_ could apply to children aged 14-years, Lord Widdershin is quoted as saying, "Well, just don't tell them they can get married, and I don't think you have to worry. What they don't know won't hurt your pocketbook." 

As for the Quidditch connection, supporters of the current legal system are quick to point out that most Quidditch games work out better than an average marriage, and are much more exciting in the interim. 

The debate about overhauling the Marriage laws has gone on for centuries, and will likely continue for centuries more before any progress is made in one direction or the other. Until then, most people are agreed that the issue of age at least is a moot point, because honestly, how many young people do you know who actually bother to read? 

_TBC…_


	2. Chapter 2 Blood and Water

**TITLE:** Sanctity  
_Chapter 2: Blood and Water_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne 

For Disclaimer and other information, see Chapter 1 

**WARNING:** This chapter involves blood. Not violence or gore, but there is blood shed later in the story. If this kind of thing makes you squeamish, please take note of this warning and be prepared! I don't want to freak anyone out unnecessarily. :-D

* * *

_The night is young,   
And the moon is a mother to both of us;  
We both understand this.   
Marriage is an old and tired religion,   
And I love all the traditional things… _

-"Charge" by Splendid 

It was dark, and the wind was high, howling through the Burrow's rafters and making the old house creak and moan. Narrow, many-fingered clouds skimmed across the moon, patterning the ground in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of shadow and light. Long, unkempt grass billowed like water, and the Otter River seemed to flow faster down it's winding course, urged on by the wild wind. 

"What was that?" Hermione whispered, casting a worried glance over her shoulder as a particularly loud creak tore through the house. 

"Nothing," Ron said, taking up her hand and squeezing tightly. Hermione turned her attention back to the young man sitting cross-legged on the bed in front of her. He was staring at their entwined fingers, and she felt her misgivings begin to melt away as he rubbed her palm with his thumb. "Old houses make noise. You get used to it, when you've lived here long enough." 

They were silent for several long minutes. It was not companionable silence, but it was not uncomfortable either. Hermione watched as Ron raised her hand to his lips, kissed the palm, and lowered it back to the bed. 

"They'll never understand, if we get caught," he murmured, tracing her lifeline with a fingertip. 

"I think you underestimate them," Hermione whispered, lifting her hand to touch his chin and tilt his head up. Their eyes met: tender brown and worried green. "I think they'd understand more than you know." 

"Not this." Shaking his head, Ron tugged her hand down from his face, using the momentum to pull her towards him so their foreheads touched. "They give me hell if I don't comb my hair in the morning. This is much bigger than that." 

"Much bigger." 

"Hermione, I… I mean, you don't have to do this, if you don't want-" 

She covered his mouth with her palm before he could go any further, and gave him a stern look. "Ronald Weasley, how many times do I have to tell you? You're not forcing me to do anything. I suggested it, remember?" 

"But if you wanted to wait… Someone else…" 

"Stop." He did, and she pulled back so she could cup his face between her hands. "Look at me." He raised his eyes; wounded green eyes. Running her thumb over his cheekbone, Hermione sighed. "I wonder sometimes if you're as thick as you make out, or if it's all just an adorable act." 

At his hurt look, she smiled and leaned forward to kiss his forehead, then wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed their cheeks together. 

"I want this as much as you," she whispered, stroking the back of his neck, "and you are not a consolation prize." 

It took a moment before he embraced her - as he always did - crushing her ribs with incredible strength, coming from such a wiry body. He'd grown in the month since the horrible events at the Department of Mysteries. Hermione's mind shrank away from those memories, though she couldn't shake the image of Harry's hollow eyes when he told her about Sirius. Squeezing her eyes shut, Hermione cleaved to Ron tightly, letting his long arms eclipse her totally, wishing she could be swallowed up by his warmth. 

"Are you sure Ginny won't wake up and miss you?" he whispered into her hair. Hermione had been staying with the Weasley's for much of the summer. She'd told her parents it was so the Weasley's could show her around the magical sites of Britain, but in actuality it was because she couldn't bear to be out of the loop where the Order was concerned. 

And, of course, there were other reasons. 

Hermione shook her head against his shoulder. "I put a little powdered lilywhite in her milk at dinner," she assured him quietly, shivering with the enormity of what they were about to do. "She'll sleep through till morning, and dream the most beautiful dreams." 

"Good." 

There would be no dreaming for them tonight. Hermione's blood was roaring in her ears, louder than the wind in the trees outside the window of Ron's cramped bedroom. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought for sure it would shatter against her breastbone. 

"Are you ready?" she heard him murmur, his fingers buried in her hair. 

The heart in her throat kept her from answering, so she nodded instead. 

--------------------------------- 

It had begun a month beforehand, in the Hogwarts' hospital wing. 

That wasn't true. Not even close. Truth be told, it began years ago - five years, in fact - on the Hogwarts Express, fresh out of London, searching for a toad. Trevor might have been pleased to know - if toad's were interested in the affairs of humans - that his aimless wandering had such a direct affect on the course of two very different lives. 

Hermione couldn't say with any assurance that she'd loved Ron immediately, though she knew the seed had been planted at that first meeting. Ron, on the other hand, knew unequivocally and without a doubt that he DIDN'T like her at all; not even remotely. No chance whatsoever. 

Which, in young-boy-speak, meant that he loved her madly the first time he set eyes on her, and didn't know what on earth to do about it. 

The obvious thing to do was STOP loving her, which was very difficult, since he didn't really understand at the time that love was his problem. He tried teasing her, poking fun at her obsession with books, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she was a know-it-all. None of this worked, of course, because all Hermione had to do was sniffle and give him a hurt look, and he'd feel like the last apple in the barrel: rotten. 

The next course of defense was to bicker with her at every given opportunity, and he excelled at that. Here was something he could really sink his teeth into. Quarrelling was a Weasley-family tradition; in a house with seven siblings, even something as minor as shutting a door could turn into a full-blown row at the drop of a hat. It was the one thing Ron could do better than Hermione - an only child - and he thrilled to the challenge. 

But there was something different about fighting with Hermione. When he fought with Hermione, the things he said really mattered. And furthermore, when he fought with Hermione, the things she said really hurt. This was uncharted territory for the youngest Weasley son; he was used to having his opinion not matter, or at the most, be listened to and then forgotten. He could fight with his brothers, and even his sister, and still know they'd be there tomorrow. But with Hermione, there was no such guarantee. 

He'd told her all of this a month ago, during a tumultuous night in the hospital wing. He'd woken up - sweaty and screaming from his nightmares - and found her sitting next to him, brown eyes wide with concern, asking him what she could do to help. And he told her; told her everything. How he loved her hair; the way it framed her face and accented her eyes. How he loved to hear her speak, even when she was telling him what a woolhead he could be. How much he worried for her, and how he hated being the one who always seemed to need protecting. How he wanted to be the one protecting HER. How afraid he'd been when he woke the first night and saw her sleeping, white and still as a ghost, in the hospital bed beside his, and how he never wanted to feel that way again. 

To Hermione's credit, she hadn't blinked an eye as he spilled his emotions into her lap like an overflowing Pensieve. True, her eyes had gotten wider, and her breath had caught a few times in her throat, but she never let go of his hand. If anything, her grip tightened as he talked on and on; five years of pent-up emotion that had finally reached a critical mass. 

When it was all over, Ron had closed his eyes and waited for the worst. After all, he'd just blabbed to her every secret he'd kept since First Year, and that was a lot for any one person to digest all in one go. He was fully prepared for her to slap him, or at least shrink away from the bed in confusion and disgust. 

He'd never expected the kiss. 

And he'd NEVER expected what she proposed next. 

------------------------------------------- 

They left the house on quiet feet, the creaking of the stairs masked by the groans of the house in the wind. It was unseasonably cold outside - more like October than early July - and Hermione shivered as she clutched Ron's arm and followed him to the river. 

Frantic ripples on the surface of the water made the moon a schizophrenic reflection of shattered light as the pair pushed their way through reeds and weeds, heading for a stand of hunched over trees that sheltered the river with a natural canopy. In her free arm, Hermione clutched a book as thick as it was wide, while Ron carried her widest, deepest potion cauldron. Shoved under his belt, like a renegade's sword, was a knife. 

They found some respite from the wind as they ducked in amongst the trees. Willow branches brushed Hermione's face as she followed Ron to a clear patch of earth at the river's edge. There had been a time in her life when Hermione was dreadfully afraid of water, and for a moment, all her old fears came floating back as she watched the frothing black water sluice by. But then she felt Ron's hand in her own, warm and strong, and made herself forget fear and regret and think only about the here and now. 

"It feels weird, doing this with nobody around," Ron observed as they knelt together on the riverbank. "Like it's not real somehow." 

Hermione set down her book and opened it to the appropriate passage, holding the pages open with a handy rock. "It's real," she assured him as she watched him lean over and fill the bowl with water from the river. "Perhaps a bit outdated, but just as legal as the more modern methods. Wizards are frightfully lazy, I'm afraid, when it comes to updating their laws and legalities. I think they prefer to forget certain laws exist rather than going through the trouble of actually banning them. They just let nature take it's course and follow along. It's… organic of them, to say the least." 

"What do you mean, _of them_?" Ron asked as he set the bowl on the ground between them. "You're a _them_ too, you know. Or had you forgotten?" 

She laughed at his grin. "Of course I haven't forgotten," she argued, playfully smacking his arm. "It's just very difficult to believe sometimes." 

Their smiles slowly faded as a new silence sprang up between them. The wind was pulling at Hermione's hair unmercifully, and she wanted nothing more than to reach out and flatten Ron's unruly red mane with her palms. But she was afraid that any movement would break this moment, and she wasn't sure what would happen if it was broken. 

"Are you sure about this?" she finally murmured, barely audible over the wind. 

Ron swallowed, but nodded. "Yes." 

"There's no going back once it's done." 

"I know." 

"I understand if-" 

He reached out and touched her cheek. His fingers were ice cold from a mix of water and wind, and they made Hermione jump. "I woke up a month ago and thought you were dead," he told her firmly, his green eyes clear. "And in that moment, I wanted to be dead, too. Tomorrow I might wake up and find that You-Know-Who's torn this world down around our ears and killed everyone I care about. I hope I don't, but that doesn't mean it won't happen." He shook his head, eyes never leaving hers. "If that happens, I want to know I did everything to be with you while I had the chance. I don't care what anyone else says or thinks; in the end, all I care about is you." He leaned across the bowl and kissed her, warm and passionate and hungry, and Hermione moaned against his mouth. 

"Are you ready?" he whispered against her lips as he drew back. 

She nodded, an unconscious pantomime of their earlier exchange in the bedroom. "Marry me," she whispered, echoing the words she'd spoken to him a month ago in the hospital wing. 

With a nod of his own, Ron pulled away, reached down, and drew the knife from his belt. 

----------------------------------------------- 

_Blood is thicker than water._ It is a phrase that always seems to have existed, since time began. Universal truths are often that way. Blood and water are cousins, the same as the apple is cousin to the pear. Water cleanses, while blood sanctifies. Both are sacred, often revered, and frequently feared. 

Rituals of blood are as old as history. Shedding another man's blood is as personal as bedding a lover, and oftentimes much more vivid in the memory. Blood is something we all share; it is just as red in the child as it is in the old man and the young mother. The bonds of blood - blood spilled, blood shared - are powerful and fierce. When an oath is sworn on the blood of a kinsman, it is a promise that must be fulfilled. 

Then there is water. It falls from heaven, and to heaven it returns, in a constant cycle; ever dying and ever reborn. It can be as gentle as a dewdrop, or as terrible as a storm at sea. It can tear a man to pieces, or wash him ashore in a safe harbor. Water is a beautiful, brutal thing, and just like blood, it unites us. The rain that falls on you today may fall on a stranger tomorrow, and in so doing, it connects you. 

Hermione was only partially right when she said wizards were to blame for leaving the old laws on the books into the modern day. Truth be told, even if they'd crossed out whole sections of marriage law and judged them null and void, they couldn't outlaw the sanctity of the act. This was old magic, dating from the dawn of history; as inevitable and impossible to deny as the ocean tide. Perhaps too many modern wizards had forgotten the power of the old ways; but enough of them still remembered, and had left those sections of text untouched in an unspoken salute to dead elders. 

Life and death. Water both gives and takes life, and so does blood. When they are united, there is no limit to what they can do. 

------------------------------------ 

Hermione took the blade first. Quietly, she read from the open book at her knee. "By the blood that binds us, I give myself to you." Reaching forward, she took his hand and pulled it towards her, turning it palm upward. For a moment she paused, looking up from the book to find his eyes. Ron was watching her calmly; there was no hesitation on his face. It gave her courage. 

Without looking down, she continued, reciting the chant from memory. "By the words that name us, I give myself to you." 

_Do it_, he mouthed. 

She nodded slightly, then bowed her head to the task at hand. 

Raising the knife, she touched the point to his palm. She pressed down, trying to be quick and decisive and failing. His flesh resisted the blade for a moment, then she heard him suck in a breath as it punctured his skin. Looking up sharply, she saw that his eyes were closed and his jaw was locked; but he didn't pull away. 

"_I'm sorry,_" she whispered, then turned back to the ritual. 

Working with as much speed as she dared, given her chilled fingers and trembling hands, she carefully carved a letter into his palm. Blood welled around the knife's tip and trickled over the sides of his hand as she drew two long vertical lines, joined by a shorter horizontal one. 

**H**

Hermione set his hand down on the grass, and quickly caught up the other one, resting it in her lap. "In the name of my father, and my mother, and the line of my family since the sun's first rising, I give myself to you." Her voice was shaking a little, but she couldn't tell if it was from the cold or for some other reason. Ignoring it as best she could, she pressed the knife for a second time into his flesh, scoring a jagged half-circle into his palm, and blunting the end of it with a line. 

**G**

Fingers slick with his blood, she scooped his hands up - palms skyward - and brought them close to her face. Placing a tender kiss on the inside of each wrist, she murmured, "What I've sullied, now make clean. What I've wounded, heal. _Amora Sempremus_." Then she lowered his hands into the bowl of cold river water. 

Ron let out a soft yelp of pain and surprise, and Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes. 

Suddenly, there was a blinding silver light. 

Then, there was dark. 

Hermione blinked, trying to clear her vision. Phantom images danced behind her eyelids as she tried to focus on Ron's face. "Ron?" she asked nervously, reaching toward him. "Ron, are you okay?" 

He intercepted her hand with his own, and she gasped at the cold touch. 

"It worked," he breathed. 

Hermione's eyes widened as her sight cleared enough and she could see his triumphant smile. Snatching up his hands, she bent over them and examined his palms. 

The wounds she'd caused were completely healed. Only faint pink scars remained; delicate, sensitive ridges nestled amongst his life and love lines. 

Raising her head, she could feel herself beaming. "It worked," she echoed him, then squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck. "It worked!" 

They hugged for several minutes, each enjoying the closeness and warmth of the other. Hermione let herself drift in a satisfied dream world as Ron stroked her wind-tossed hair. Even the cold wind and the roar of the untamed river couldn't disturb her reverie. 

Finally, Ron murmured in her ear, "We aren't finished." 

She bit her lip. Of course, she knew they weren't done. Marriage involved two people, after all, and only one had gone through the ceremony. 

Sitting back on her heels, but keeping her hands on his shoulders, she nodded. "I'm ready." 

------------------------------------------- 

Hermione had never liked knives. It wasn't that she was afraid of them; far from it. No one could handle a scalpel like Hermione Granger. What she didn't like about blades in general was how their edges seemed to disappear into nothing. When she was a child, she had asked her father once where the edge of a knife went when it was REALLY sharp. He'd chuckled and told her about molecules and whetstones and other concrete facts she could have built houses on, but he'd never answered her question. On a really sharp knife, where did the blade end and the air begin? 

Ron's first cut answered her question. The edge ended where her flesh began. 

Tears stung her eyes as he carefully drew an **R** into her palm. She couldn't deny the irony that all he'd had to endure was a simple **H** and **G**, while she had to sit through the curls and edges of an **R** and then the neverending angles of a **W**. Those thoughts were squashed immediately by her conscience; Ron couldn't change his initials just to suit her, even if he'd wanted to. The name was just as important as the blood. And endurance was the point. The pain was a test. 

There was no other way, of course. Oh yes, they could have gone to their parents and asked for permission. And perhaps it would have been granted. And perhaps there would have been engraved invitations and seating charts and menu options. And perhaps there would have been slow dancing under paper lanterns and Ginny complaining about the cut of her bridesmaid dress. And perhaps Harry would have given the Best Man's speech, while Fred and George teased Ron unmercifully about his stag night and Mrs. Weasley wept into her napkin about her little man all grown up. 

Or perhaps none of it would have happened, and they'd both end up dead in the interim. They were sick of letting things happen to them. It was time to have a say for once. 

Her palms felt hot and sticky, and the cold air was making her shiver even harder than before. Had this been what it felt like for Ron? Had he felt feverish and frozen all at the same time? Her hair was lashing her face, whipped by the chill wind. It kept getting into her mouth, brittle as straw. 

The first hand throbbed on the ground, palm upward, as Ron finished carving the last arm of his **W** into the opposite extremity. She thought she heard him let out a shuddering breath as he finally finished, and quickly gathered her hands up to his face. Warm lips kissed her frigid wrists; first left, then right. "What I've sullied, now make clean. What I've wounded, heal. _Amora Sempremus_," he murmured huskily. She hadn't even heard him speak the rest of the ritual. 

The next thing she felt was searing pain, as he lowered her hands into the bowl of icy water. She couldn't swallow a strangled cry, and her eyes flew open. It was all she could do to keep from yanking her hands out of the freezing water altogether. 

"I'm sorry…!" Ron whispered miserably, his face a lesson in distress. "I'm so, so sorry…! I've mucked it up, haven't I? I've done it all wrong. I knew I would. Oh, God, I'm sorry…!" 

She wanted to tell him it was okay, she understood what had to be done; but she couldn't. 

Then there was a blinding flash of silver light. 

And darkness. 

The pain was gone. Her body was filled with an easy, comfortable lassitude, turning her backbone to jelly and her knees to mush. This felt too good to be a mistake. 

Pulling her hands out of the water, she held them up in front of his face, dribbling silver droplets of moonlight onto his knees. "It worked," she proclaimed, beaming. Just to convince him, she wiggled her fingers and tapped his nose. "See? You did it." 

Ron stared at her hands in frank disbelief for several seconds, his eyes coasting from one to the other and back again. Slowly, a foolish grin spread across his face. 

"Wicked," he breathed. 

Hermione giggled, and flung herself at him. "You may kiss the bride, Mr. Weasley," she purred against his mouth. "In fact, she rather insists you do." 

Ron's eyes twinkled. "Insists, does she? Well, mustn't keep her waiting, I suppose." 

"Considering I could curse you quicker than you can say _Crookshanks_, I think you should speed things up." 

He laughed and kissed her; a sweet kiss, like a man to his wife at a family picnic. That gave her pause: it was the first time she'd ever really thought of Ron as a man. Did that make her a woman? 

They cuddled together on the river bank for a few minutes, unspeaking. Hermione nestled in the crook of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and ran her fingertip over and over along the spidery pink ridge of the **H** on his left hand. If she didn't know better, she'd have sworn it had been there for years. 

"I think I'll have to drop Divination now," Ron mused quietly, breaking the silence. "Palmistry would just bring up all kinds of strange questions. Though come to think of it…" He rubbed his cheek against her hair thoughtfully. "Do centaurs do palmistry? Seems a bit below them, really. Besides, if they're going to do palmistry, they'd probably have to do hoofistry, too, and that's just silly." 

Hermione laughed and tilted up her head to capture his lips in a quick kiss. "I love you, Ron Weasley," she said with a smile, stroking his cheek with her still tender hand. "Please don't change." 

She felt his face flush under her palm. "Are we really married?" he asked. 

She nodded. "According to ancient wizarding custom." 

"So does that mean we can do… married things?" 

This time it was Hermione's turn to blush. "You mean squabble with each other in public?" she joked, with a shaky laugh. She knew that wasn't what he was talking about. "Because we've been doing that for years." 

Ron chewed his lower lip. "I meant… other things," he said softly. 

Hermione lay still for a moment in his arms, then slid closer, burying her face in his neck and enjoying the scent of him. "Yes, Ron," she whispered beneath his ear, and felt his pulse speed up against her lips. "We can do those things, too." 

His Adam's apple bobbed in the corner of her vision as his arms tightened around her midsection. "Do you…?" He let the question dangle. 

That was the question, wasn't it? Was she ready? Was HE? They were only 16, for heaven's sake. A few months ago, she would have said no in an instant. 

But that was then, and this was now, and she was married, and he was her husband, and he was so WARM, and he smelled so GOOD… 

Sitting back on her heels, she took his face between her hands and said, "We have three options, as I see it. First, we can go back to the house. I go to Ginny's room, you go to yours, and come morning, we keep this our little secret and act like nothing has happened. " She rubbed his lips with her thumb and continued. "Number two. We wait here till sunrise, then sneak back to the house in time to change back into our pajamas, then wait downstairs for the others to wake up, and pretend we'd just gotten up ourselves." 

She took a deep breath and continued. "Or three." Licking her lips nervously, she plowed on. "We go back to the house. You go to your room, and… and I go with you. And… things happen from there." 

Ron's hands were massaging her hips, and she shivered with pleasure. "Do you have a preference?" he asked tentatively. 

The heat in her cheeks indicated that if it wasn't so dark, he'd have seen her blushing as red as his hair. "I'm… rather partial to number three," she admitted, casting her eyes down to watch his collarbone. 

His fingers under her chin tilted her face up so they were eye to eye. "Me too," he whispered. 

It was amazing how those two words could lay all her worries to rest in a heartbeat. 

Of course, they couldn't go just yet. There was still the matter of the ritual to finish. While Ron watched, Hermione lifted the cauldron and poured its contents into the rushing river. Holding it open against the current, she let the roiling waters scour it clean, carrying the magic they'd conjured downstream. The next time a rain shower fell along the course of the Otter River, that magic would fall with the droplets, and lighten the hearts of those it touched. 

Old magic appreciates witnesses, even if they don't know what they're witnesses to. 

_TBC…_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **The marriage ritual I described in this chapter isn't based on any actual ceremony, be it mythical or historical. It was entirely of my own creation. So if you're sitting there scratching your head, wondering where the heck I'd ever heard of such a thing… Well, now you know. LOL! Now shush, and read the rest of the story. ;)


	3. Chapter 3 At Last

**TITLE:** Sanctity  
_Chapter 3: At Last_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne 

For Disclaimer and other information, see Chapter 1

* * *

_Into this night I wander:   
It's morning light I dread.   
Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread.   
Into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride.   
'Cause nothing stands between us here,   
And I won't be denied… _

-"Possession" by Sarah McLachlan 

His palm brushed over the scar on her chest, creating a sympathetic tingle, and she gasped. 

"Sorry," Ron panted against her shoulder, moving to take his hand away. 

"No…!" Hermione exclaimed, grabbing his hand and pressing it harder against her breastbone. "It feels good…" 

"Really?" 

"Mmmm…" 

Accepting that answer, he mumbled something incomprehensible, and Hermione felt his body relax beside her. Their legs and arms were so entangled, it was probably more appropriate to say she felt his body relax above, around, beneath _and_ beside her, but her brain wouldn't function properly, so she didn't bother to make the mental correction. In fact, there was very little of her that was actually functioning normally. She couldn't make her arms or legs move, and her eyes kept trying to close; something she was valiantly fighting, but it was a losing battle. The only thing that seemed to be going at top speed was her heart, which was pounding against her ribs like a jackhammer. Her lungs in turn were fighting for air, though at least she was only breathing heavily now, rather than gasping as she had been a minute before. 

A warm flush of pleasure began to creep up Hermione's body, starting at the soles of her feet and slowly curling up her legs, circling quickly around her hips and midriff, and then spreading out like a warm sunrise over her torso and down her arms. It took her a moment to figure out exactly what it was. No, it definitely wasn't… THAT. It made her giggle giddily just thinking about THAT. No, this was something different. Less physical, but still potent. 

When the realization struck her, it was like a lightning bolt. 

She was happy. 

It wasn't a strong enough word for how she felt, and that was a fact, so she set her prodigious mind to trying to find an apt simile. Something more intense and less vague. But her brain was still lounging in a deck chair, basking in the afterglow, and she couldn't get it to wake up and pay attention. So she had to settle for a list of adjectives instead. 

She was content, pleased, thrilled, warm, comfortable, safe, hyper, expansive, subdued, tender, ravenous, desperate, obsessed, pleading, lustful, passionate, romantic, nervous, dreamy, eager, thoughtful, giddy, hopeful, and at peace. In other words, she was happy. 

No. 

VERY happy. 

"Perfect," she murmured drowsily, rubbing her cheek against the pillow and cuddling deeper under Ron's sheltering body. His skin was hot against hers, and the room felt humid despite the chill of the night. The tree outside Ron's window tossed and bucked in the wind, splintering the dappled moonlight that fell on his back, which was shining under a thin sheen of sweat. Dreamily, Hermione traced her name on his back, using her index finger to form the characters in loopy script down his spine. She giggled when he shrugged his shoulder blades to fend off the tickle. She'd never giggled this much in her life. Now it seemed to be all she could manage. 

Yes, she was happy; happy like she'd never been before in her life. For once, she truly had everything she wanted. There had always been a piece of her that worried she was too plain, too bushy-haired, too knobby-kneed, to ever catch someone's eye. She'd convinced herself she didn't care, and she was certain she could have gone her entire life without finding a soul mate and she would have been fine. But now that she HAD found him, she had to admit it felt better than she'd ever dreamed. 

There was only one thing that still nagged at the edge of her consciousness. What would she do if she lost him? If Voldemort came along and hurled a death curse at him and killed him with a word? It was too painful to think about, so of course it dominated her thoughts. What would she do without him? 

Well, that was a silly question. She'd move on. She'd mourn him, and swear vengeance, and probably carry out that revenge on a variety of deserving Death Eaters come the end. She'd visit his grave, and leave flowers for every birthday and every anniversary and every Christmas. She _wouldn't_ wail and scream and gnash her teeth and collapse in a worthless heap of skin and bones. She'd keep going. 

She just wouldn't be complete. 

Losing Ron would be like having a hand cut off, or an arm, or - most likely - the heart ripped from her chest. The initials carved into her palms weren't just pretty decoration; they meant something. They symbolized union. They were a bond of blood. Already she could see herself: dressed in black, hovering beside his grave, thin lips set in a stark line against a pale face and dark, stony eyes, like twin caves in a void. What scared her most was she'd seen that look already, though not on her own face. That same hollow expression. 

How was Harry doing? 

Shivering, she shook off the morbid thoughts and huddled closer to Ron's side. He was already asleep, but his arms reflexively wrapped around her waist as he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him so that she was sprawled across his chest. Rather than fight it, she let herself be pulled along, delighting in being this close to him. For now, she just wanted to be happy. Let the rest of the world rend itself asunder on the other side of his bedroom door; she, for one, was going to sleep through it all. 

Closing her eyes, she began turning names over in her head, trying to decide which one she liked better. _Hermione Weasley. Hermione GRANGER-Weasley. "Hello, I'm Hermione Granger-Weasley." "Hello, I'm Mrs. Hermione Weasley." "Hello, I'm Hermione. Hermione Weasley. Ron's wife, you remember?"…_

Even sleep couldn't wipe the peaceful smile from her face. If anything, it only got brighter. 

--------------------------------------- 

**THREE HOURS LATER**

Ron's arm was asleep, but he didn't want to move it since that would wake her up, and he wasn't quite ready to do that yet. He knew he'd have to wake her soon, so she could make it back to Ginny's room before the house started stirring, but _soon_ would just have to wait. 

Hermione didn't look like an angel when she slept. She looked like Hermione, and that was much better, in Ron's opinion. Sleeping next to an angel would have been a pretty daunting task. But when Hermione slept, he could finally see her without any shields. This was the REAL Hermione; the Hermione who snored very quietly, and whose hand liked to open and close periodically as she slept, as though she were beckoning someone to come closer. She had the blankets curled up tightly under her chin and was snuggling up against him like he was a big, red-headed teddy bear. The fact that his arm was numb from the weight of her slight frame was barely an afterthought. 

Part of him was still convinced this was a dream. There was no way in a million years Hermione Granger had married him; certainly not in a secret ritual by the river in the middle of the night. And she most CERTAINLY was not sleeping next to him, her fluffy brown hair tickling his chin. Things like that didn't happen to Ron Weasley. Perhaps to his brother Bill, and maybe Charlie, and even Fred and George, but not him. He was the king of hand-me-downs; nothing he ever had was truly HIS. But she'd written her name down the ridge of his spine with a lazy index finger, and she'd carved her initials into the palms of his hands. The phantom pain he still felt from the latter act told him that it was most definitely NOT a dream. 

Raising one hand, he looked at the initial drawn there. **G**. Granger. Was she a Granger anymore? Would she want to use his last name? Or perhaps hyphenate the two? Would it even matter yet, since they intended to keep the whole thing a secret? 

He snorted. Right, a secret. If Ginny didn't sniff out what was up, Harry certainly would. All he'd have to do was ask why Ron was grinning like an idiot all the time, and Ron would spill the beans in a heartbeat. Hermione would probably glare and smack his arm, and maybe even give him the cold shoulder for a few days because of it, but he knew that she'd secretly be glad to have the whole thing out in the open, even if that _open_ only consisted of one person. 

He sighed and lowered his hand again, resting it on the small of her back and rubbing gently. He was rewarded with a pleased coo from the girl curled up next to him, and a happy wriggle. Honestly, Hermione was making sounds tonight that he'd never heard her make before. For the life of him, he couldn't remember a time she'd ever actually COOED. Just because of a little touching! 

Oh, who was he kidding. HE'D been cooing up a storm earlier, because Hermione had incredibly soft skin, and she smelled like apricot, and she'd obviously read enough books to know EXACTLY what to do… 

A rampant red blush was burning his cheeks, and he coughed to break that train of thought before it went any further. _Oh, yes, that's exactly how you want to wake her up, Ron. Start mauling her like a cougar in heat._

A sudden wave of protectiveness rolled over him, and he wrapped his arms firmly around her slim body, forcing the numb hand to move despite its protests. He had never felt this way before. Yes, he'd had crushes, and puppy loves when he was younger, but never anything as strong as LOVE. Crushes melted as quickly as ice cream, and puppy love faded with age, but Ron could never imagine ever truly loving anybody who wasn't Hermione. Now he understood his parents; why his mother always kept one eye on their Family Clock when Mr. Weasley was out of the house. 

"No one else but you, Hermione," he murmured to the silent bedroom, idly stroking her tailbone. He could feel the unnaturally smooth pink scar on her chest as it rubbed against his, and he closed his eyes. If Dolohov had succeeded… If any little thing had gone wrong… 

"It didn't," he reminded himself firmly. "She's here." 

_She almost wasn't._

To his surprise, tears were in his eyes. He quickly blinked them away, bringing up his hand to scrub away the more determined ones. Blubbing like a baby wasn't going to change the fact that they were in danger now; REAL danger. They weren't just Harry's friends anymore; they were honorary members of the Order, with age their only barrier. Dumbledore and McGonagall and the elder Weasleys could tell them all they wanted that they were not to get involved in the fight against You-Know-Who, but it was too late. They WERE involved, and had been since day one, on the train, when a boy named Ron Weasley asked a boy named Harry Potter to show him his scar. 

How was Harry doing? 

The clock on his wall told him it was well past 3:30 in the morning. He really needed to wake Hermione up soon. He didn't think she'd be impressed if he let her oversleep because he was daydreaming about their acrobatics from earlier in the night. The ache in his back was vying for attention with the numbness in his arm, but he decided there were worse problems to have. 

Oddly enough, he was actually looking forward to waking the sleeping girl. Not because she'd leave - he didn't want her to - but because he'd get to help her dress. They'd been in such a frenzied rush when they stumbled into his bedroom earlier that night that he hadn't gotten to enjoy UNdressing her. But this time was going to be different. He was going to take his time, and really pay attention to what he was doing. 

Maybe she'd help him dress, too. Maybe she'd kiss the scars on his arms, and the letters on his hands, and tell him how much she loved him; the way she had three hours ago. Maybe she'd tell him to forget keeping this a secret. _"Let's tell everyone at breakfast. They'll understand. Now shhh… Go back to sleep."_

Hermione stirred beside him, mumbling something in her sleep, and he could tell she was waking up. That unerring internal clock of hers was probably telling her the same thing the clock on his wall was telling him; that it was time to go. Well, if she was going to wake up anyway, he'd watch her. That would be a first: watching Hermione wake up. Just one more first in a night of new beginnings. 

He tilted his head down to bury his face in her hair. He'd told her earlier that he wanted to do everything he could to be with her while they had the chance, and he'd done it. There was only one problem. He wanted to KEEP doing it, for a long, long time. If You-Know-Who ever did anything to hurt her… Well, then The Boy Who Lived would be the least of the dark wizard's worries. 

Like the Forbidden Curses, old magic only worked when the people who used it REALLY believed in what they were doing, which meant that when he married Hermione, he loved her. And she loved him. And it wasn't just a young love; a fleeting love; a transient emotion. It was LOVE, deep as marrow; unshakeable. He wondered if that was unusual. 

"Ron…?" 

Rousing himself from his thoughts, he answered. "Good morning." 

"Is it morning?" She raised a sleepy head. "Really?" 

He glanced out the window. "Yeah," he admitted, nodding. "But really, really early." 

Her face stretched out in a huge yawn, before she collapsed forward onto his chest in a boneless heap. "Don't wanna get up…" she complained drowsily. "Comf'ble…" 

_I will not laugh, I will not laugh, I value my life, I will not laugh…_ "My dad will be getting up for work soon," he told her. "You have to." She groaned. "I'm sorry. I'll get up too. Walk you to your room. Then we both have to suffer." 

She took a moment to think about that, then snuggled closer and cooed. "Good." 

Ron snorted. "Mean girl." 

They rested in silence for a minute, as Hermione's senses slowly returned. "Ron?" she finally murmured. 

"Mmm?" 

"Any regrets?" 

He thought quietly for a minute. _Yes,_ he thought. _Plenty. Because I think if I ever lost you, I'd start to die, little by little, until I joined you on the other side. I think if anyone ever hurts you, I'll kill them. I think I've never felt like this about anyone before, and some of it scares me. And I think you feel the same._

"None," he finally answered. "None at all." 

**THE END**


End file.
